


Bones Break and Flesh Decays

by sullymygoodname



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Zombies, life-altering events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:26:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullymygoodname/pseuds/sullymygoodname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://zombi-fic-ation.livejournal.com">zombi_fic_ation</a>'s amnesty round, prompt: 27. Any fandom - Just bitten. <i>It wasn't a virus — no more than lycanthropy was a virus, both entwined with ancient magicks. Like, stupid amounts of crazy magic all up in this shit. But it was magic with no rules, at least none that Stiles could discern.</i></p><p>General spoilers for the show/characters so far - all of seasons 1 and 2, specifically episode 1x04, but nothing from s3. Set sometime in the near future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bones Break and Flesh Decays

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I'm disgustingly happy that my first fic in this fandom is a zombie apocalypse. Don't worry, SPN friends, I haven't abandoned 'ship or the "New" 'verse. This idea just… bit me.
> 
> Thank you, blue_fjords, you are my favorite beta and cheerleader ever.
> 
> Also posted on [dreamwidth](http://sullymygoodname.dreamwidth.org/4292.html) and [livejournal](http://sullymygoodname.livejournal.com/4500.html).
> 
> The story you are about to read is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the creator's imagination or are used fictitiously. This story does not reflect the views or opinions of any actual person portrayed herein.  
> ...Anyway, IT'S JUST ~~CLAY~~ ...er, FICTION!

* * *

There's surprisingly little blood. And Stiles has always thought himself kind of a bleeder. But the wound isn't gushing like you see on television. Like Stiles has seen in his real life, even. There's also surprisingly little pain now, after the initial blunt agony of human teeth rending flesh, sinking into skin and muscle; it's but a dull ache radiating from the area just above his left elbow. For the most part Stiles feels numb, and he's afraid to wonder if that's merely shock setting in, or the bite working its way through his veins.

He's hardly aware of being lifted, carried, and set down again on a hard surface — the desk in his father's office. They made it into the station then.

And his father is—

"Stiles? _Stiles!_ " Right here, arms wrapped tight around Stiles's body, holding him against his chest.

"Dad," he sighs, tension draining out of him. "It's okay, Dad. You're okay." He reaches up with his good arm and traces the tear tracks across his father's pale cheeks, leaving red fingerprints behind.

The sound of feet scuffling out in the hall comes closer, then Derek rounds the corner into the doorway with Isaac and Deputy Marcus behind him. She has her gun drawn, but she's the least bloody of all of them.

"We beat them back and locked up the doors again," Derek says, coming into the room. "The barricades will hold for a while, but we should start thinking about—" He stops so suddenly a few feet away, going completely still. "Stiles, your arm."

"Oh, yeah," Stiles says, eyes dropping to the sleeve of his torn and bloodstained shirt. Stiffly, Derek kneels beside the desk, hands hovering uncertainly. "Sucks, right? I guess, for the first time ever, we probably should've stuck with your plan, huh?" Stiles tries to shrug, but that hurts. He tries to smile for Derek, but that hurts, too, because Derek's face is crumbling.

 

* * *

 

They were holed up at the Hale house, most of the pack and a few civilians — Derek, Stiles, Isaac, Erica and Boyd plus their remaining family members, and a girl they went to school with named Emily.

When Derek had had the place rebuilt, he'd made several key modifications. Being way out in the woods helped — not many people wandered out that way on a good day — but the new structure had been fortified against hunters, Alpha werewolves, and pixies (don't ask). Basically, the house was impenetrable. It was the best place to set up home base. They had weapons, provisions, and the benefit of being isolated from the public (which every horror movie Stiles had ever seen said was a bad thing, but go figure). The downside was that not everyone made it to the house in time, and the pack was split up all over town.

Scott was with Allison and her father doing a sweep of the town when all hell broke loose (roughly three days ago). Jackson and Lydia rounded up his parents, her mother (she couldn't locate her dad), and hightailed it to the Mahealani house to protect Danny and his family. The Sheriff was on duty and, thankfully, listened when Stiles told him to lock himself and his deputies in the station — civilians were locked in the cells, everyone checked for bites. Derek barely managed to get the rest of them out of town and into the woods to Fort Hale. They'd all been keeping in constant contact via radio.

The radios went silent two hours ago.

"I have to go, Derek; he's my _father_!" Stiles screamed at him, buzzing with fear or rage or both. He could hear his own heart pounding and the blood rushing in his ears, and he knew that it was just as loud for Derek.

"I'm not letting you go out there," Derek growled, backing him into a corner. "It's a suicide mission."

"You can't keep me here," Stiles spat back, even though he knew for a fact that Derek very well could. "He hasn't responded in hours. Anything could've happened!"

"Exactly. _Anything_. The plan was to get everyone here, Stiles. He could be on his way for all we know." On the surface Derek appeared calm, completely in control, but Stiles saw the struggle in his eyes. The flare of red every now and then, like a pulse growing stronger. The wolf was surging to the forefront, instincts to protect overtaking Derek's rational mind.

"Derek." He reached up and placed both hands gently on Derek's shoulders, pleading, "I have to find him. I _need_ to."

Derek stood frozen, face stony, muscles bunched and tight, breathing heavily through his nose. "Fine. But you're not going alone."

 

* * *

 

"We need to get him to the hospital," says his dad, worming his hands beneath Stiles's armpits to lift him up. He winces and grits his teeth against the pain.

"No chance." Isaac steps further into the room, clutching his bloody 3-speed hand saw ( _Black & Decker totally missed a marketing goldmine there_, thinks Stiles, giggling to himself). "It was overrun, last we heard from Scott," Isaac continues, darting worried looks at Stiles. "He and Allison got his mom and a few other people out, but… it's a no-go area now."

"There's nothing they could do anyway," Derek says, voice low and matter-of-fact. He's still kneeling beside the desk. His hand comes to rest delicately on Stiles's chest, warm directly over his heart. They don't look away from each other.

 

* * *

 

Lydia was bitten more than a week ago, back when nobody knew what was going on yet. "Why does this shit keep happening to me?" she'd said, calmly like a razor.

They'd waited and waited and, when the third day passed and she still hadn't turned, they took that as confirmation that her immunity extended beyond the Wolf Bite. That was just before the shit really hit the fan, before the whole damn town — hell, maybe the whole world, who knew? — fell apart.

It wasn't a virus — no more than lycanthropy was a virus, both entwined with ancient magicks. Like, stupid amounts of crazy magic all up in this shit. But it was magic with no rules, at least none that Stiles could discern.

Corpses didn't start crawling out of their graves, necromancers waiting in the wings; it didn't start with an infection from rage monkeys; he highly doubted it was manufactured by the government; and in the beginning it spread slowly enough that nobody took notice for weeks. But it was definitely the bite that did it, that turned people. Into what, nobody quite knew. These people weren't the reanimated dead, but they weren't really _human_ anymore, either. Derek said they weren't any type of shapeshifter he'd ever heard of — this wasn't a case of an Alpha bite gone wrong like with the Kanima. There was nothing in the bestiary that explained this, nothing in what Derek could salvage from his parents' library, nothing in Peter's laptop. This was something new.

Or something very, very old.

 

* * *

 

Stiles can feel his arm starting to tremble, fingers tingling, and he clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. The shakes come first, then the cold, then... then every single person he's seen this happen to so far is so out of it that they can't form the words to describe it any longer. Their speech, their _minds_ are just gone.

"It's... s-starting," he stutters, a shiver running down his spine.

"No, there's still time." His father sits up straighter on the desk, hauling Stiles with him. "It takes days, right?" He's looking at Derek, who still hasn't moved.

"Three," Derek answers quietly. "Usually. But it's... I think it's getting stronger now, working faster. It might only be one day." He's still watching Stiles, eyes never leaving his face.

"There has to be something..." His dad's eyes flick to Deputy Marcus still standing in the doorway behind Isaac, and back to Derek. "Can't _you_ do anything?"

 

* * *

 

The wolves were immune. Whatever the bite did, their accelerated healing powers combated it just like any other injury or illness. Stiles tried making sense of that — if it was magic, one would think it'd have an effect on other magic creatures, but who the hell knew with this crap. Isaac was bitten while helping a girl escape from a horde.

"She was being chased down Oak Street," Isaac told them, still holding her hand. "What was I supposed to do, leave her?"

Derek checked Isaac's shoulder, peeling away the tatters of his blood-soaked t-shirt. He wiped away the mess and they all watched as the skin mended itself and the teeth marks disappeared.

"Hey, at least now we know for sure you guys are safe," Stiles said, sounding a lot more steady than he felt.

"How… what…" The girl was still panting from their sprint, her cropped hair sticking out in all directions.

"He'll explain later. We have to move. Now!" Derek barked at them, already striding off down the street where his Camaro just magically appeared and skidded to a halt. Boyd was behind the wheel, with his grandmother sitting shotgun. With a shotgun, no less.

"Hey, uh, you were in my AP English class last semester, right?" Stiles asked the girl.

"Uh-huh." She nodded, still looking a little dazed, not letting go of Isaac's hand as he led her after Derek. "I'm Emily."

"Stiles," he replied, trying for a reassuring smile. She didn't look reassured. "Hey, don't worry. We're, uh, we're the good guys." His Jeep was parked haphazardly on the side of the road, but Derek still had his keys. "Hey, Der—" Derek turned around and whipped the keys at Stiles (miracle of miracles, he actually caught them).

"Take them, go to the house," Derek ordered.

"What about Erica?" Stiles paused while opening his door. "They won't all fit in your car."

Derek looked like he was gritting his teeth, claws ready to come out, but that was pretty much Derek's default setting. "Isaac, go with Boyd. Stiles and I will pick up Erica."

As they passed each other, Derek laid a hand on Isaac's shoulder, leaned close, and whispered something in his ear. Isaac bit his lip, a tiny smile, then lightning-quick grabbed Derek in a one-armed hug. It lasted for a mere second, so fast Stiles wasn't sure it really happened.

Derek watched them go, before marching over to Stiles and taking the keys back. "I'm still driving."

 

* * *

 

Having his father _in the know_ is massively helpful most of the time. And it turned out to be much more of a relief to Stiles than he'd thought possible. Instead of lying to his dad to protect him, Stiles prepared the shit out of him. So, yeah, he knows about the werewolves, and the hunters, and the other things they've encountered. He's still getting the hang of knowing when to step back and let them (Derek, the pack, sometimes Chris Argent) take care of things, and when to swoop in and help.

He knows being Wolf equates to rapid healing and hard to kill.

Stiles twists his fingers in his dad's shirt, pulling his gaze from Derek, and shakes his head slowly.

"I know you never wanted it, son, but—"

Stiles shakes his head again. "No. It's not—" No, he'd never wanted The Bite. Not _that_ bite. He's pretty much opposed to all supernatural bites at the moment.

"It won't work," Derek's raspy voice cuts in. "It doesn't work."

 

* * *

 

They left the Jeep running outside Erica's house, and found her inside sitting on the floor next to a shivering woman. A young girl sat in Erica's lap, and a boy knelt on the other side.

Erica's mother was not immune. She was already shaking so badly Stiles thought he could hear her bones rattling. Her face was pale and her lips were blue.

Everything happened really fast after that. Erica pleaded with Derek, "You have to; it's the only way," and Derek kept refusing, trying to usher Erica and her siblings away from their mother and out to the car.

"It cured my epilepsy," Erica continued. "And Scott's asthma. And the fucked cartilage in Boyd's knee."

Derek picked up Erica's little brother, kicking and screaming, and tried to hand him off to Stiles. As soon as the kid wriggled away he went right back to his mom's side.

"If it can fix all that, it can fix this. Do it, Derek." Erica tried to keep up her tough girl act, but the tears strangled her words.

Derek crouched down beside her and stroked her hair, tucking it back out of her face. "We don't know that it will save her."

"It will! Derek, please." She sobbed the last word, rocking her little sister back and forth.

Stiles stepped up next to him when Derek stood. "Isaac healed. It might work. It might be the only thing that can," he said quietly into Derek's ear, though he knew Erica could hear, as well.

Finally Derek nodded. Erica pulled her brother and sister to the other side of the room and hid their faces so they couldn't watch.

 

* * *

 

"If I—" Derek shakes his head. "It will only kill him faster."

Stiles looks away, buries his face in his father's brown uniform shirt, the texture and smell both familiar and comforting. He'd watched that happen, Mrs. Reyes's body convulsing, bones breaking, spine twisting — it was like the werewolf and the... the zombie were warring inside her. There were no winners.

"Something else then," his dad persists. "This isn't happening. This can't happen."

The numbness is subsiding, taken over by new resolve. "Dad, don't," Stiles says, craning his neck back to look his father in the eye. "Listen. Dad, listen. You have to take care of the pack now. They need someone with some sense. Especially him." He flops his hand in Derek's direction. "Okay?"

"Stop it."

Walking dead or not, there are ways to put them down. Cutting them in half seems to work, not unlike with werewolves (and probably any living creature, really), decapitation, pretty much any kind of severing of the spinal cord.

And then there's the good old fashioned headshot.

With shaking fingers, Stiles slips his dad's gun out of his shoulder holster and tries to hand it over to Derek. "You do it. Derek, you're gonna have to do it. I don't think I can do it myself, and I can't ask my dad to—not him, please, don't make him go through that."

"Stiles, no. That's not—" His father snatches the gun out of his hands and shoves it away. "We're not doing that. Just no."

Stiles tries to speak, clears his throat, takes a deep breath. He can stay strong for this, for them. "There's nothing else."

His dad starts crying in earnest. Stiles hasn't seen him cry, _really_ cry, in years. It freaked him out then, and it freaks him out now. But he knows the pack will look after him. Derek will look after him. Stiles tries to sit up, but his dad won't let go. And Derek's hand is still on his chest. Stiles lifts his own hand to brush his knuckles against Derek's cheek. Unfortunately he isn't in complete control of that arm and more or less knocks his loose fist into Derek's face. Derek doesn't even blink.

"I wish..." Stiles pauses, because this is a secret that was supposed to stay buried, but... "I wish I could've known what it felt like to kiss you." Derek moves so fast, grasps Stiles's hand tightly and smashes it to his lips. Stiles laughs, half-choking. "Aw, man. I'm gonna die a virgin."

Derek's eyes close. "Stop making stupid jokes."

"Who was joking? That is a legitimate regret." He tries to curl his fingers around Derek's. It feels strange, holding Derek's hand. Good strange. And god, that really _is_ going to be his biggest regret. Stiles refuses to start crying now, though. "Hey remember that time with the Alpha pack? Man, we all thought _that_ was going to be the end of us."

Derek doesn't even tell him to shut up. Hell, his glare is barely passing muster.

"Don't make my dad watch."

"I'm not doing it, Stiles." Derek's lips tickle his skin, breath whispering through the hairs on the back of his hand.

"Derek. There's no other way." He swipes his thumb across Derek's mouth, locking eyes with him.

"There is one other thing." Derek stands abruptly, hands flying to his belt and unbuckling it quickly.

"Whoa there, cowboy." Stiles feels his eyes go wide. "What are you— _Not in front of my father!_ "

Derek yanks his belt out of the loops with a sharp _ffftthhing_ sound. Stiles half expects Derek to snap it like a whip. He leans back into his dad, who, yes, is still _right here_.

"Isaac. Go wash that off," Derek commands, pointing to the power saw in Isaac's hands. "Thoroughly. Sterilize it if you can."

"What?" Stiles watches Isaac shoot out of the room past Deputy Marcus, and is startled by Derek's hands on him, lifting his wounded arm and looping the belt around it. "What?"

"We're going to need bandages," Derek says, tightening the belt around Stiles's bicep, effectively cutting off the circulation. "Lots. Anything clean will work."

"Wait, no."

"We have a first aid room here at the station," says his dad, sniffing, coming back to himself. "It's stocked with all the essentials. Angela will show you." He gestures at Deputy Marcus and she nods back.

"I said wait. And no. No? I'm saying no." Stiles flails and _shit that hurts_. His dad restrains him, pushing him down flat onto the desk and cradling his head.

Derek stands over him, hand on Stiles's chest. "I'll be back."

"If you're playing the hero in this movie, Derek," Stiles huffs, "you're supposed to say _'come with me if you want to live.'_ "

At the door, Derek looks back over his shoulder. "You're going to live."

 

* * *

 

There was a fundamental difference between Stiles and Derek. Hell, there were _many_ differences between them. See, even back then Stiles knew: he _never_ would've been able to cut off Derek's arm.

 

* * *

 

"I don't like this plan. I am emphatically not in favor of this plan. Guys? Guys, seriously."

"There's no anesthetic here, but we do have stuff for the pain," Derek is saying above him.

"Dad! I don't want to do this. Please."

"It'll be alright, son. You'll be alright." His dad is petting his hair, just like he used to when Stiles was a kid home sick from school. "Right?" his dad asks Derek.

"It spreads like an infection. But slowly. This is his only chance." Something is shoved, albeit gently, between his teeth. "Bite down." Ah, it's the trailing end of Derek's belt around his arm that's been _cut off with Derek's claws_.

Isaac is busy cleaning his arm from shoulder to elbow, methodically rinsing away the blood and grime. "I watched Dr. Deaton amputate a dog's leg once. It wasn't that bad. This will be just like that."

The leather in his mouth muffles Stiles's hysterical laughter. _Only he is allowed to make the dog jokes!_

"I need you all to hold him still. Sheriff." Derek pauses. "Turn his face away. Yours, too."

Before his dad can do that, Derek leans down and cups Stiles's face in his hands. They feel blistering hot on his skin. Stiles tries to make a sound, a protest, anything.

"I promise to kiss you," Derek says, staring him in the eye, "after you survive."

Then his face is smooshed so hard into his father's chest that he can barely breathe. He loses it when the saw buzzes to life, screaming his throat raw, and almost, _almost_ doesn't notice when the blade touches his skin.

He passes out before it hits bone.

 

* * *

 

"So." Stiles ambled over, hands in his pockets. "It looks pretty good."

Derek was just standing there, gazing up at his newly rebuilt house. The sun was setting through the trees, casting long rays of rosy, warm light over everything. Derek glanced at Stiles briefly, nodded without saying a word.

"I hear everyone gets their own room, even."

"Just in case they ever need to crash here. People need their own space." Crossing his arms, Derek shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "It's not like I'm letting them move in."

Stiles tried his best to stifle a laugh. It came out as a very unattractive snort instead. "Right." _Just in case_ they needed to stay over, all at the same time. The only reasons for that Stiles could think of were late night movie marathons or a massive wolfy graduation party that he just _knew_ Derek was planning.

It had been pretty quiet around here lately.

 

* * *

 

He comes to slowly, sound filtering in before he can open his eyes. Mumbled voices far away, someone breathing next to him, his own heartbeat strong and steady. He feels warm all over, a soft, velvety sensation coursing through his body — the complete opposite of the shattering chills he'd felt before.

When he opens his eyes, he searches for his dad first. His head is bowed over Stiles, eyes closed. His dad's hands are warm and solid and holding him like they should be. Derek is on his other side with his hand on Stiles's bare chest, his shirt having disappeared sometime while he was out. Isaac's hand is there, too, and Stiles watches thick black ropes slither up through their veins.

"Oh, that's what that is," he slurs. "You guys are really… fffuzzy. Like baby bunnies."

His dad makes a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and his lips are warm against Stiles's forehead.

Stiles doesn't want to look, he really, really doesn't, but he can't help himself. His arm, what should be his left arm, is just a stump of wadded bandages. He whips his head away, swallows convulsively. He needs to sit up.

"I need to sit up." He struggles, and three sets of hands help push him.

"We pumped you full of painkillers, so you're going to be a little dizzy," his dad warns him, taking the bulk of Stiles's weight to hold him up.

"Boy, howdy." He breathes deep, eyes closed, 'cause the room is spinning. After a couple minutes it's a little better. He doesn't see a severed arm laying around anywhere… but there is a spray of blood on the floor, swirling on the tile. With maybe a boot print in it. It's like one of those magic eye pictures — look hard enough and you'll see a sailboat.

Yep, Stiles knew he was a bleeder.

"I think I'm gonna—" He pitches sideways and heaves over the end of the desk. Nothing comes out, though. His dad catches him, one arm around his waist with the other hand on Stiles's forehead. His mom always used to do that, put her hand there while he threw up so he wouldn’t bash his face on the toilet. Stiles retches a couple more times, coughs, then leans back. "I'm okay. I'm good."

Steadying himself on the edge of the desk, legs dangling over, Stiles shoves their hands away. "I can do it. I'm fine." His dad keeps one hand on the small of his back and that's… that's okay. He feels unbalanced. He's… he is. He still doesn't want to look at it, though.

"Did it work? Please tell me that worked. I maybe kinda feel like it worked?" Stiles says to the room at large. Derek stands in front him, staring intently, and takes a step closer until he's between Stiles's legs. "Um, hey? Whatcha… whatcha doin'?"

"I made a promise," Derek says, leaning in, cupping Stiles's face in both hands, and kissing him. It's just a soft kiss, closed-mouthed, a warm press of lips on lips. Still, he's really glad he didn't actually throw up. They stare at each other when Derek pulls back.

Behind him, his dad clears his throat, and Stiles remembers that they are not alone.

"Um, heh," Stiles coughs. "Awkward." His dad is gazing heavenward when Stiles looks at him, but there's no masking the relief and joy on his face.

Across the room the radio screeches and squawks, and Scott's panicked voice sails out to them. _"Sheriff? Stiles? Come in, Stiles! Anyone? Are you there?!"_

Derek grabs the radio before anyone else can get to it. "Scott. Where are you?"

_"We're back at the house! Boyd says you guys went—"_

"Yeah, we made it to the station. It'll be a while before we can get back to the house. We'll…" Derek tips his head in that way that means he's listening to something outside the range of human hearing. "We'll be bringing more people back with us. Make some space. And keep everyone there. Understand? Do not let anyone else go outside."

 _"Duh."_ Stiles rolls his eyes at Scott's tone. _"Where is Stiles? Let me talk to him. He's there, right?"_

Derek holds the radio up for him without relinquishing it.

"Scott. Hey, yeah, I'm still here, buddy," Stiles says, and he's grinning. "I'm still here."

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Eep!
> 
> This story was partially inspired by [When Everyone Else is Gone by entanglednow](http://archiveofourown.org/works/451766), and that one episode of The Walking Dead. You know which one.
> 
> These zombies are obviously not our traditional zombies, or the new "virus" zombies. I wanted to do something different, hence the cold rather than the fever we see in most new zombie stories. Given that the transformation here takes longer than the norm, you'd think it would be easier to contain. But I'm just going to say "blah blah MAGIC!" and let that be the answer. Actually, blue_fjords has encouraged me to turn this into a 'verse because she wants to see "Badass One-Armed Stiles" and I'm thinking about it… but I'll have to work on my personal mythology first.
> 
> So, the present/past tense thing was kind of an experiment, to distinguish between the now and the then without resorting to excessive italics or abuse of the pluperfect. Not sure how well it worked. Did it read like I was just messing up my tenses?
> 
> "Calmly, like a razor" is a line from BTE's Allison Foley - I just really loved that phrasing, so I totally stole it. Also, I think it fits Lydia beautifully. Title is taken from [this song](http://youtu.be/NQdfr1rUfCo).


End file.
